A Morcel
by McGonagall's Bola
Summary: A morcel... set after Grindelwald's fall. Minerva's lost both in battle and in aftermath. -REWRITTEN!


The book thudded against her thighs within half an hour already. Despite being able to read fast ever since adolescence, she had barely gotten through a chapter since having taken the book from her extended bookshelf... Foolish enough, Minerva McGonagall had hoped that one of her favorite novels might be able to get her worried mind off certain matters, but this was just as futile as any of the other books had been... any of the other otherwise engaging activities – which now somehow all seemed to have lost their capacity to occupy her mind and the concerns often enough contained within... concerns – at least, thoughts... concerning thoughts most of the time, fair enough.

He certainly had loved his little Minerva dearly, and she him in return. It had been hard at first, after Dougal.

However, it hadn't worked anymore between them. Their love hadn't been enough anymore in the end. Both of them had changed in a variety of ways since having gotten together... and neither could say whether for the better or not, either for themselves or... the other.

The war had left them both with scars, caused by a variety of reasons... and affecting them in a variety of ways. They both dealt with matters essentially different, despite neither of them being very willing to talk about those. They might have been willing to deal with one another's scars, but not with their own... Oh no, neither Minerva or the wizard that had loved her for years and still did could ever be described as a victim or weak. Neither of them ever sought for empathy let alone sympathy. They were not the kind of persons lingering longer with matters than essentially necessary... that was just one of the many commonalities between them; the many ways in which they recognized themselves within the other. However, scars have the tendency to leave a person slightly different... like a mighty hurricane which rushes through, which never leaves everything intact. It always leaves a crack even upon the stronger houses.

The shattering of meanings accompanying the end of the war and in particular their trying to remain alive left most of all damage within. It had the tendency to temper even those who never showed tears in public and always seemed so much stronger. It didn't always leave one being best of company. It didn't always leave one seeing life – reality – as they once did... most of all not oneself. The reflection definitely changed after. No matter the time period in which a war enveloped itself, it still left visible scars: worry lines, haunted features... Even if you couldn't see it very well, looking farther is the key; looking within the eyes that once shimmered, but are left more unclear than ever might lead you to see what lips would never spill – not even highly intoxicated.

Minerva McGonagall missed to be held. She seldom did show that need for intimacy... for comfort. She seldom did cry. However, there was a mighty difference Minerva uncovered upon re-becoming single again... the difference between feeling someone's arms around you or soothingly knowing that particular someone would have held you had they been with you if they were not at that point... and, and... nothing. Minerva McGonagall had no thoughts that could soothe her right then, though.

Acquaintances... there were enough of these. However, there wasn't anyone to call her best comrade; anyone who ever called Minerva their best comrade in return. The age where everyone had least one bestest companion had long passed – not that she longed to return to those times of childishness or keep these childish notions alive in adulthood, but it would have been nice to have someone who truly understood her without necessarily having to be involved within her... who knew she did oftentimes like the silence better; who would just be with her, make her unconsciously stop letting her burdened mind run through their last conversation over and over again even if only for a little while. Someone who could hold her without more, and whose embrace actually had a comforting effect. It had been a very long time since she had felt that with anyone else but a lover... Being hugged by acquaintances made the thought 'forced' go through her mind every time, as if they only did so because it seemed expected maybe. As if they felt like they had to.

She missed not only intimacy but being intimate as well. Satisfying her own needs was vastly different from being made love to... a difference of night and day, she daresay! Her lover certainly hadn't been the most adept so to speak. Oh no... but still.

She had been the one to end their relationship – or rather, both of them had. She had just been the one to address it in conversation first.

Shoving the closed book aside upon the table beside the large couch, Minerva stood.

Despite the sun high above, the wind whirled strongly about her figure as her bare feet touched the green grass. Wrapping her arms about herself, she watched those wide fields beyond where the little garden attached to the inherited cottage ended. Wisps of ebony escaped her long braid as the wind encompassed her. She was no quitter, but deep down inside at times like these, Minerva doubted herself to be... or not to be.

A sad smile passed over pale features as realization suddenly dawned upon her. He had stood about here upon Apparating away... from the cottage they had lived in together once, from their life together and from her all the same. She did not miss the uncomfortable silences, the feeling that there was nothing left to be said between them... that their magic had somehow waned. She did not miss fights ensued by no particular reason.

She did miss the times when he would wrap his arms around her from behind and hold her at a moment like this. She did miss the times when she could lean back trustingly and hear him laugh softly in her ear. She missed... his love, his safety.

Moving on was what she needed to do... somehow. After all... the only one that embraced her at that point was the cold wind – and it wasn't much of an embrace at that.


End file.
